


Anecdotal Evidence

by hedda62



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, Not Quite a Sex Pollen Fic But Close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A walk at night in the Emperor's garden leads to some interesting revelations.  As requested by Philomytha, the five-years-later sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/309937">The Emperor's Garden</a> (but readable without it).  (And, er, the pairing.  Not really, entirely, though I felt those inclined to be shocked should be warned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anecdotal Evidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Emperor's Garden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/309937) by [hedda62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62). 



The air chilled, unmistakably, as Ekaterin stepped out from between the protective line of hedges and into the herb garden, a tendril of the cold early spring wind finding its way under her jacket. She made a mental note, marking as she did that it was not a judgmental note, not disapproval of her design. Just: _detail of microclimate, possibly useful; if not, to be corrected._ In summer, it might mean better air circulation for those herbs that preferred Earth's ancient Mediterranean drought. Vorbarr Sultana could get humid and rainy, and she struggled to stay one step ahead of the fungal diseases.

She brushed a hand against the rosemary hedge she'd managed to keep thigh-high and healthy despite the cold winters, wet summers, and freeze-and-thaw of the interim seasons, releasing its warm resin into the air. Always the smells were what captivated her about these night walks in the Emperor's garden. At this time of year, most of the odors were of growth -- sweet, freshly-turned soil; fresh green leaves just coming alive -- rather than of fullness, but the few open blooms sent heady gasps into the otherwise silent darkness, a sensual ambush she preferred to the continual shout of blossom in late spring and early summer.

She stilled, breathing in the differing herbal aromas, the earthy decay of shed foliage, the sharp clove smell of a viburnum staking its claim on spring. Yes, it worked. If it hadn't, she would have had little regret about yanking out plants and replacing them with others more suitable, but she was glad it did.

With the quieting of her feet and of the breeze, she became suddenly aware that she wasn't alone in the garden. This wasn't unexpected -- the gardeners on staff might also have nighttime tasks or obsessions; the Residence grounds were continually patrolled; she herself had an ImpSec perimeter guard -- but it surprised her that she knew the footsteps approaching, as well as she would have known Miles's or those of her children.

"Hello, Gregor," she said without turning.

"Good evening, Countess," he replied, coming to stand beside her. He was in a formal mood, then; it didn't make her address a _faux pas_. Neither of them said "what are you doing here?" He was the Emperor; it was his garden to wander in late at night if he chose. And it was her garden, too.

Finally, though, he added, "Come here often?" in the particular dry tone that signaled a mild joke.

"I try to do a night walk once a season, to be sure the design fits darkness as well as light."

"You're still doing that after five years?"

"Gardens change. I need to be sure everything's still in balance."

He took in a breath, then paused. "I was going to remark," he said then, "that I paid you for design and installation, not maintenance. But that was foolish. You're a Vorkosigan. By marriage, but… well, and then you're _you._ Nothing by halves."

"A real Vorkosigan would have switched half the plants around by now, out of sudden instinctive whim. Probably without making a single mistake."

"Ah," said Gregor: a world of understanding in the syllable, and then, "There would have been plenty of mistakes. Just compounded and agonized over and fixed at a rate too fast for the rest of us to keep track of." He brushed his own hand over the rosemary, and added, "I couldn't sleep."

"Affairs of state?" Ekaterin said, echoing his _this is a joke and a rhetorical question_ tone. Naturally, he gave her a serious answer.

"I wish that wasn't the same thing as 'family affairs' where I was concerned. Xav's going through a politically rebellious period. We should be electing our emperors, apparently. He's very sincere; he's also terrified. I think it's just become real to him that he'll be sitting where I am, someday."

Ekaterin hesitated, then plunged ahead with an honest, "Well, good. A healthy amount of fear is beneficial in a ruler." Gregor laughed, ruefully. "Helen, on the other hand, is convinced she'll be leading the Council of Counts around by the nose as soon as Miles gives her his voting proxy. No one has told her this is even a possibility; she's just decided it will be so."

"Warn me, please, so I can abdicate sufficiently in advance," Gregor said, and then sighed. "There are things the next generation will just have to work out for themselves. Maybe… if we stroll about for a bit, I'll be tired enough to rest. Or I'll stroll and you just go on doing your job. I don't want to burden you--"

"I can't see where 'listening to the Emperor's troubles' isn't part of my job."

"Mm. Installation, design, _and_ maintenance of emperors. The Vorkosigan mandate." He took in a breath and passed a hand over his face, wiping away the bitterness. "Sorry. I'm very glad you're here, and that you're… who you are. The whole Vor… _thing,_ it's one of the few places Laisa and I can't… and besides, she's a good sleeper. One of us should be, I mean; I don't resent--"

"Gregor. Strolling?"

"Right." He offered her his arm, a formal, automatic gesture that seemed nevertheless intentional and personal, and she took it. "Lead on," he said. "Give me the ten-mark tour; I think I can afford that, tonight."

She could feel his body warmth through the coat he wore: old Service issue, she thought, worn and faded, with the insignia removed. The sort of thing you threw on to walk at night where no one who'd judge could see you. It wasn't original to Gregor; he hadn't been a serving officer long enough for anything he'd worn to fade.

"Not sure it's worth ten marks," she said. "Early spring at night isn't exactly spectacular. We should make a date for the summer; there's much more going on then. New this year: night-bloomers from five different planets that claim to be called moonflowers, all clamoring for equal attention."

Gregor grimaced. "Too much like work. I don't mind the unspectacular; in fact I rather prefer it."

"Well" -- she ran through a plant list in her head -- "we could see how the Illyrican jasmine is getting on."

"Whatever you'd like." They walked on in silence, the idea of discussing his problems having apparently been shelved. He did seem to have relaxed: the tenseness in the arm against hers diminished; insofar as she could tell in the pale light, some of the lines in his face smoothed out. He was fifty now; he'd been Emperor her entire lifetime. Too much for any one man to bear: the more people he had to lean on, the better, she thought, snugging in a little closer.

She'd planted the jasmine in an obscure alcove near the end of one of the long brick pathways, given it a wall to clamber on if it so willed, and then left it to fate. And, she could see as they approached, she'd been rewarded. Letting go of Gregor's arm, she ventured in close to peer at the unfurling purple leaves and the tiny white blossoms.

"It's not an Earth jasmine, of course," she explained, "but an Illyrican species with a similar scent. And you wouldn't think it would thrive here, given our hard winter freezes, but despite having evolved in a warm climate, it does. It even blooms in the chill of spring. I can't say I understand how, but… well, this is why I wanted it." She guided him in. "Put your face there and inhale."

He obeyed, and then closed his eyes, and… there. That was peace: momentary and dependent on olfactory stimulus, but something she could give him. She stroked his arm in a little rush of affection. He drew in another, longer breath, and then leaned head and shoulder on the wall and blinked his eyelids open again.

"Wow," he said, and… it was no longer peace she saw in his face. Her breath caught, and her brain produced, unbidden, the phrase: _the Emperor, well-fucked._ This was what Gregor looked like in bed: she was positively certain, and the sight both flustered and aroused her, which was enough to fluster her all over again.

"Some people do say it's an aphrodisiac," she uttered, and then was appalled at herself. She was still touching him; her hand jerked away. His head tipped forward and he fixed her with his heavy-lidded gaze.

"Is that why you tucked it back here," he said, and she wasn't imagining the throaty quality of his voice, "in one of the few spots where ImpSec hasn't got a camera or a good line of sight?"

"I… no, actually," she managed. "It was more because I didn't want it dying dramatically in the middle of the pathway where everyone could see it. Any other, um, benefit was…"

"Unintended?" Familiar, shrewd Gregor and unthinkable, alluring Gregor looked equally out of his eyes. _Oh God, he thinks I've brought him here to seduce him. Maintenance of emperors. Part of my job. We live to serve._

"Unintended," she said firmly, trying not to imagine too clearly what his rosemary-tinged fingers would feel like touching her face, what the brick would feel like against her knees.

"Well," he said, neither his stance nor his expression shifting, though he managed to loom a little closer nonetheless, "I'll have to keep its purported effect in mind. What blooms here in the summer?"

"Moonflowers."

A small twitch of the mouth. "And what do they smell like?"

"These ones? The Cetagandans claim they exude the perfume of" -- a haut woman's hair, was what she'd ben told; she wasn't going to say that -- "the most perfect rose. We'll see."

His grin quirked, making him Gregor the Known and Predictable again for a second, and then faded. "Send me a memo," he said. "With a list, and… there's probably something about pheromones and endorphins, right? We should have it in a file somewhere."

"Yes, Sire."

"And is there more to the tour?" he went on, dry tone back in place. It was this, for some reason, that made her blush furiously; even in the filtered moonlight he could see it. "I'm sorry," he said, straightening his spine. "Shit. Really sorry. You can't help my reactions. Insomniac, distracted, and apparently sensory-deprived, though I can't imagine why." He nodded his head in the direction of the Residence: the potential source of all worldly pleasures. "I get a little too… transparent. Needy? Something highly inappropriate, in any case."

"Well, if you can't be needy with friends… I mean…"

"You're my friend and my subject. And my foster brother's wife, and my overzealous garden designer, and an attractive woman, God knows, but I should be able to manage a conversation about Illyrican jasmine without… there are times when 'let's see what happens' is not a valuable precept. And looking as though you might be asking to find out is problematic when…" He shook his head. "Maybe Xav's right about democracy, though--"

"Gregor." Stopping babble with a word was something she knew how to do, at least. "There are laws protecting subordinates of all sorts from unwanted… they're your laws."

"Yes. Well, technically. Aral's laws, for the most part. Cordelia's. And you know perfectly well why they were so keen to ram them through while I was still a minor."

This shocked her; she hadn't considered making the connection, but clearly Gregor had. "You were never going to turn out like your father."

"How do you know? Maybe I'm" -- his mouth twisted: a very serious joke -- "a late bloomer."

"Don't be an idiot."

He huffed out a laugh. "All right then. Catch you calling Serg Vorbarra names; some things have changed. But the abuse of power is… always possible. Probable, even." Stepping forward, he took her hands, then deliberately turned his head and breathed in the fragrance on the wall again. Then he placed his forehead against hers.

"Aphrodisiac, hm?" he murmured.

"No scientific studies. There's anecdotal--"

"I bet there is." Her blood was pounding; for a second she was sure… and then he drew in a deep, steady inhale, squeezed her hands and let go. "Let's get some fresh air," he said.

"God yes." They broke for the path.

She'd never been so glad for a cold breeze. "Well," he said after an awkward moment of silence, "that was interesting."

"To say the least."

It was probably a smirk on his face, but it was a warm and sincere smirk. "I really do ration the experiments rather severely."

"Thank you." She sought words, found them. "In the terraforming course I took, we heard a number of horror stories upfront. About people who planted vines for quick cover, that took over entire continents. And they'd tested them in the lab first. You never know."

"Yes." One word: painful years of comprehension. The moonlight was catching Gregor's face, making him look paler and more ascetic than ever: definitely not Serg. But what a choice it must have been, to let even one woman get that close to him.

"And," she went on, "there isn't just one kind of power. I planted the jasmine, after all; I could have… I mean, if I'd had any intent…" He shook his head, denying that she was capable of such a thing. "Of course," she added, thinking aloud now, "anecdotal evidence is, well, crap, for the most part."

"I know," he said, looking intently at her, and she knew he understood _that_ as well. Chemical interactions were hit-or-miss, mood-influenced, subject to the phases of the moon for all she knew. But the power of a creator over her creation, over the man she'd created it for, who'd fallen enough in love that he walked in it at night to soothe his soul… it was another cautionary tale in the making, if nothing else.

They started to stroll again, heading in the general direction of the north entrance where her car was waiting. "On the other hand," Gregor said, "there's a lot to be said for the experimental approach. Or the unscientific, instinctive lunge. It's why I have Miles."

Ekaterin grinned. "It's why _I_ have Miles, too."

"Mm. He is quite good at… hitting the right spot."

"At a statistically unlikely rate," she agreed, and then -- there'd been something in Gregor's tone -- "He'll keep doing it for a while yet, you know. It'll take a lot to slow him down."

"I do know; I just hate the thought that…" She could feel him thrust Miles's eventual premature death away -- she certainly wanted to -- and when he said, "I think ten more years," she knew he meant something else entirely. "Ten more years, and then I abdicate and Xav takes over. He'll still be young, but steady enough. Prepared to decide how he wants to handle the Empire, and with plenty of support. Including Helen's, I hope. If that's how you decide the succession should go."

"She and Aral are going to have to work that one out. And they do have time. I'm just mentally preparing myself for being the mother of the first female Count's heir. Unless someone else beats us to it."

"Beats the Vorkosigans to wild inflammatory innovation? God forbid."

Gregor grinned at his own witticism, and then yawned. They were nearly at the gate; Ekaterin paused them under the branches of a flowering plum tree, pink snow falling after the last several warm days, and gave him a little shove back toward the Residence. "I can see myself out," she said. "Go home to Laisa and get to bed."

"Did you finish your… design analysis, or whatever it was?"

"Yes," she said dryly. "I think I did. It was… illuminating."

He took her by the shoulders, kissed her forehead. "I felt rather lit-up myself there for a while. And no, I'm not going to say 'I'm sorry' again, and neither are you. Your blessings flower continually, Countess, and so do your garden's. And I won't expect you here at night again for at least three months. Let me know when, so we can do that tour."

"Agreed," she said, reaching up to brush petals off his hair. "And meanwhile try to get some sleep. Emperors work much better when they sleep."

He checked her suggestions off on his fingers. "Sleeping; fear; occasional vigorously-controlled experiments. Got it. Good night, Ekaterin."

"Good night, Sire," she said, and turned for the gate, plum blossoms scattering in her wake.


End file.
